


Malcontent

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bisexual Eames, Canon Backstory, Dom and Arthur won't know what hit them, F/M, M/M, Mal is lovely, They are a fierce team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 07:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10212866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: Eames belonged to Mal first, but they both belonged to dreamshare.“Do you believe there's one person for everyone?” she asked.  Eames thought it was ludicrous.  What he wanted to say was, “There are seven billion people on the planet. What are the odds you'd find the exact right person for you in that big of a pool?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, first [entrecomillas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entrecomillas/pseuds/entrecomillas) prompted an Eames/Mal pairing, which I'd never read and never written, and then my brain wouldn't shut up. So here is some Eames/Mal on its way to Arthur/Eames, because those two have my heart and always will.  
>  Special thanks to [kate_the_reader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader) and [iamanonniemouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse) for reading this over, pointing out my duh, and in general making this presentable. Thank you for being wonderful!

Eames traced a finger down Mal's spine, following the exquisite flow of her body, each dip and curve, from the tip of her neck to the swell of her bum. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, sleepy and sated, and he drew constellations with her freckles. Eventually, he would get up, walk out the door, and never see her again, but he did love this. The post-coital bliss of enjoying another person's body, with no sexual tension or expectations to fulfil. It was lovely, being able to study minute details up close. She was lovely.

"Do you believe there's one person for everyone?" she said, breaking the silence.

Eames plastered on a thoughtful frown, not sure how she expected him to respond. He shrugged a shoulder and said, "Maybe," a teasing lilt allowing her to interpret it however she wanted.

In truth, he thought it was ludicrous. What he wanted to say was, "There are seven billion people on the planet. What are the odds you'd find the exact right person for you in that big of a pool?" One in seven billion, he supposed. If you were lucky enough to be straight or gay, that narrowed it down, but he didn't have that luxury. Even if he did, it was a big planet and if you just happened upon the "perfect person" and they lived on the same continent, let alone were in a socially appropriate age range and spoke the same language as you, well, you were just a little more fortunate than Eames was familiar with.

"I used to believe that," Mal said, her eyes wistful in the low light. "Now I'm not so sure."

Eames, who ten seconds ago had every intention of being back on base by morning, felt oddly challenged. "Not good enough for you, babe?" he asked, grinning. He changed his tracing finger into an appreciative palm, sliding over her perfect bum and dropping a kiss on her shoulder. He stretched out along her side, every muscle built of laps and reps and screaming commanding officers on display, and raised a playful eyebrow.

She smiled back and curled into him, a flawless concave to his convex. He kissed her slow and sweet, and she responded, exploring his mouth with her own. As he worked his way down her body once again, he thought, _Who am I to say this isn't the perfect person? Because this feels pretty damned good._

* * *

Mal met Cobb for the first and last time when she was 18.

She was on break at university and she'd told her mother she was going to use the time to get closer to her father. It was a lie; she had no intention of getting any closer to him, but she definitely enjoyed flitting in and out of his old country estate at will. The grounds were well-kept, empty, and heartbreakingly beautiful, and begging to be enjoyed. Her father kept horses, even though he didn't ride. Maybe he just liked feeding them. But she rode, putting to use the hours of lessons her mother had paid for. Besides, she liked the way her bum looked in riding breeches.

But when she flounced into her father's office and found the American soldier standing at ease in the middle of the Oriental rug, she felt a little bad about dragging in the mud and whatever else was on her boots. She took in the silver briefcase on the desk and the way her father hid it behind himself, just as fast as she took in the soldier's sandy flop of hair, kissable mouth, and blue eyes. Good Lord, he was good looking, just the kind of rough and tumble bloke she could wear out in a week. And who didn't love a man in uniform?

"Papa," she wheedled, leaning forward to kiss her father's cheek and making sure her best side was on display, "can I borrow the car this afternoon?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," he nodded, his British politeness keeping him from frankly stating how anxious he was to get her out of the room. "That's fine. Now, I was in the middle of a meeting, my dear..."

She turned and glanced at the American, who made no move to show he'd noticed her at all. "My mistake," she said, eyeing him. She flipped her hair and exited, hanging outside the door to get one last glance at the intriguing briefcase and marking exactly where her father hid it.

The soldier's name, Cobb, had been written on his chest, but as delectable as he was, what she couldn't stop thinking about was the _case_. He'd brought it, that was clear, but he'd left it here, which was odd. Her father didn't work for the military, not that she knew of. He was a city planner, engineer, and part-time university consultant for hire, with a passion for old architecture. What the military would need him for was beyond comprehension.

It took her two hours to figure out how to work it. She watched her father leave the house, told the housekeeper she was going to take a bath, and made a big show of grabbing a bottle of wine. Then she snuck the case into the bathroom and locked the door. The handwritten instructions gave away little to nothing, but the IV, glass phial, and needles were fairly self-explanatory. The fact that she didn't overdose herself on the first run was a small miracle.

It was heaven. Literally, the first thing she saw when she went under was how she assumed heaven looked, clouds and palaces in mid-air with a purple streaked sky. The wind smelled like honey and she had exactly enough time on the clock to go from confused, to amazed, to addicted before she was blinking awake in a heap on her father's bathroom floor. She didn't even check how long she'd been out before her shaking fingers set her up for another run and she slammed the button home. Her second run lasted longer and placed her in the middle of Van Gogh's Starry Night. She smeared herself across a world made of paint swirls, the textures of the buildings, trees, and sky so satisfyingly tangible she wanted to have sex with the whole world.

She stared at the bathroom ceiling, breathing hard, and felt her whole world shift.

"Oh, Cobb," she whispered, "what have you done to me?"

Over the next six months, Mal went back to her father's every weekend, although the glorious case was only there once more. It was too late, though. She was already hooked. She changed majors, took art and history and architecture and made some new friends. Her next boyfriend was a talkative meathead stationed nearby, who took her to a dance. She spent the night with her eyes and her ears open, making contacts and friends, but she didn't see Cobb.

During that time she thought about him off and on, wondering what his voice sounded like and exactly what his connection to her drug of choice was. He showed up in a few of her racier dreams, but she focused on graduating early. She leant on her father's good name and slept with exactly the right men to get her where she wanted-closer to that damnably alluring silver case.

The men were predictable, boorish and boring, and while she made sure she left them smiling, she also made sure they knew she was leaving. She didn't have time to deal with a string of broken hearts, least of all hers. She was a woman driven, and oh, that finish line looked pretty damned good.

Still, sometimes, in the dark, it was a little lonelier than she liked to admit. Even with someone in the bed next to her, someone beautiful and generous and well-connected, she wished for the chance to go back to that afternoon in the study and find out more about Cobb instead of the silver case.

"Do you believe there's one person for everyone?" she asked the man with the military buzz cut and friends in high places next to her. Eames, that was his name.

 _Tell me no_ , she wanted to shout. _Tell me it's not about fate, or destiny, or being in the right place at the right time. Use your seductive English accent to tell me I didn't fuck up my entire life by taking a 30-second interaction and choosing the wrong thing to focus on._

"Maybe," he said instead, deliberately neutral, and of course he would be. He was beefy but that didn't make him stupid. He was also hung like a horse, which did kind of make her stupid.

"I used to believe that," Mal said, turning on her best wistful expression in the low light. "Now I'm not so sure."

He, of course, took it as a challenge, and Mal promised herself she'd let him leave after this last round. She could live a little first. There was no harm in indulging once in a while. Or twice in a while.

The next morning, when he was still in her bed, his big, hairy thigh thrown over her and his morning wood pressed into her hip, she saw the silver case again.

Her father burst into her room, despite her locked door, wild-eyed and clutching the case like it was a life vest.

* * *

Eames's first thought of the morning was that Mal's breasts were perfect. He got a glorious eyeful as she leapt out of bed, shouting a string of curses in French and, he assumed, demanding to know what the old guy was doing in her room. He wrapped a sheet around himself, trying to hide a dick that should really be more worn out after last night.

He was never at his best when he first woke up.

"I just need you to hide this, just for a little while," the man said, flustered, his knuckles white around the edge of a case in his hands. "Someone already stole the other one, and I can't just…" He broke off to check the windows, and pull the shades.

The man hadn't noticed the way Mal was staring at the rectangular metal box like it was a Paul Newman-James Dean sandwich. And the winning lottery ticket. _And_ chocolate cake. By the time he'd turned back, Mal had schooled her features once again, but Eames knew what he'd seen. He'd never looked at anyone or anything like that in his life. And when he'd picked Mal up at the bar closest to base last night, he'd pegged her as a kindred spirit. He didn't get people wrong very often. Interesting.

She pulled on a kimono, which, his dick reminded him, looked damn good on her, and she was still streaming non-stop French. The man replied in French before switching to English in frustration, shouting, "I can't understand when you talk that fast, just hide the damnable thing for me and, I don't know, go stay with your mother for a week!"

Mal glared at him, arms crossed, but huffed out an angry breath and held out her hand. "Fine," she bit out, and Eames would almost have believed she was doing him a favour if he hadn't seen that _look._

The man, who Eames was guessing was Mal's father, hooked the handle over her outstretched hand with care, and when she slid it under the sofa, he put his hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths. When he finally looked up, he noticed for the first time the naked man in his daughter's bed. His eyes flitted nervously back and forth from Eames to Mal.

Mal sighed. "Eames, this is my father, Miles. Papa, this is my boyfriend, Eames."

 _Huh. Boyfriend, huh? Wonder what the upgrade is all about,_ he thought. He wasn't going to complain — there were obviously parts of him that weren't quite tired of Mal yet — but she didn't seem like the kind of woman that you shared a fucking malt with.

"Pleasure," Eames ventured, and was rewarded with a polite, "Likewise."

Miles turned back to Mal, holding her shoulders. "Look, I've got to go," he said, "just please, leave town, take it with you, go on holiday for all I care. Just give me a little time and then I'll come get it. You shouldn't be in any danger, just better safe than sorry, eh?"

"I already said 'Fine,'" Mal snipped. Miles kissed her on both cheeks, pulled open the door, and was gone.

Eames slid on his boxer briefs and watched as she retrieved the case and set it down on the sofa with hands that were visibly shaking. She knelt, as if paying homage and, slowly, reverently, she opened it. "Oh, holy fuck," Mal whispered. Her eyes were bright and she was biting her lip, and under her silk robe, her nipples were hard. She was stunning.

He moved toward her slowly, more curious about this than anything he'd encountered, and he didn't want to scare her off. But when she pulled out a glass phial and a syringe, he took a step back. Mal was nice and all, but he didn't really want to get caught up in that game. He'd dabbled in drugs in his misspent youth, enough to appreciate limits, and he knew his own.

The movement caught Mal's eye and she looked at him as if remembering he was there.

"This isn't what it looks like," she ventured, but she was already turning back to the contents of the case.

"Why don't you tell me what it is, then," he said.

She just stroked the case a few times before her fingers flipped some switches. A red timer started blinking. Mal shuddered out a breath and she whispered, "Heaven."

Eames clenched his jaw in concern, but Mal waved at him dismissively like she knew what he was thinking. "Just 30 seconds. No, 45. I just want to see…"

 _What the hell kind of junkie measures their high in seconds?_ Eames wondered.

Mal's fingers flew over the console like she'd been doing it for years, depositing a small amount of the clear liquid into an IV line and inserting the line into a vein. She arranged herself leaning against the side of the sofa and met his eyes once.

"45 seconds," she said again, then pressed a circular plunger on the device and immediately lost consciousness.

"Mal!" he ran to shake her, " _Mal!_ " He checked her pulse, which was strong and fast, and her breathing, which was steady. He stopped himself before ripping out the IV, checking the clock first. She'd said 45 seconds. She had exactly 45 seconds or he was pulling that shite out of her arm and driving her dumb arse to the hospital. He checked the glass phial, which had a refreshingly pharmaceutical label announcing it as "Somnacin", and the case itself contained the clearly military acronym P.A.S.I.V. etched into the interior. No mention of what it stood for, but he wondered if the V had anything to do with visual. He checked Mal again, and her rapid eye movement under her lids combined with the soft, open look of her mouth, made it seem like she was dreaming.

Eames paced, then pulled on his trousers and shirt while he watched her, counting seconds in his head. He was just grabbing his shoes in case he really did need to take her to the hospital when she opened her eyes.

"Mal!" he exclaimed, rushing to her side. She just sighed, a happy smile on her lips and looking so blissed out he wondered again about the kind of high 45 seconds could give you. She looked supremely satisfied, not sexually, just… content. Like a huge weight had been taken off her shoulders.

"Mal?" he asked, tentative this time.

"Hmm?"

"What happened?"

She smiled again, staring into middle distance. "It was just like I remembered. Better."

"But what… is it?"

Mal's eyes focused on his, suddenly present in a way he wasn't sure he'd seen before in her. "Oh," she breathed. "I wonder what you could do with two people…" She trailed off, and Eames felt a healthy mix of interest and trepidation fight for dominance in his gut.

Then she nodded to herself like she'd made a decision and said, "It is pure creation, Eames. I don't know a lot. Some I've guessed, some I've inferred, and some I've fought long and hard to find out." She took him by the arm, her tone weighty. "This is a recently decommissioned military project that is so classified your CO doesn't know about it. Trying this could get you discharged. And," she hesitated, "it will change your life."

 _Run_ , his fight-or-flight told him. _Run now and never look back_. But he looked at Mal, a highly sophisticated and composed woman, who last night at the bar had been untouchable and ethereal. Now she was standing here, silk kimono askew, hair a tumbled mess, and a flush on her cheeks he had nothing to do with. She looked… alive. And he wanted that. He wanted it so much, more than he'd ever wanted anything. He wanted bigger, better, _more_. He held out his wrist.

When he woke 20 minutes later, fresh from a pirate adventure in a surrealist, Max Ernst world, he realised he was in love. He knew now that the reason he had never found the perfect person was because he had been created for the PASIV and the PASIV for him.

"You okay?" she'd asked him, and he'd only been able to murmur, "Paul Newman-James Dean sandwich. Lottery. Chocolate cake." She didn't ask him to explain.

They fucked on the floor afterwards, hot and frantic, and Eames couldn't wait to go again.

They never gave the PASIV back to Miles. Eames had no idea how Mal pulled that one off, but they had always 24-hour access to the machine. Eames had to use every fibre of charm he possessed and every military contact he could pull down, but he finally managed to get his hands on the formula for Somnacin. He hadn't had sex with the lad, per se, although that was a matter of semantics. He and Mal had agreed it was in line with their long-term goals, and Eames was surprisingly okay leaving Brandon afterwards and taking the information he needed. He also left with the itch of an idea in the back of his mind about lucrative ways the machine could be used.

Eames had a friend of a friend. Eames was excellent at having friends of friends. Mal wasn't bad herself, but Eames was _excellent_. It was one of the reasons she kept him around.

This particular friend of a friend lived in India and was a whiz with chemicals. He'd heard of him during his misspent youth, and when Eames contacted him about creating and supplying Somnacin, Yusuf luckily knew exactly what Eames was asking for, and unluckily exactly how much it was worth.

He agreed to waive his fee forever in exchange for a working PASIV, which led to several failed attempts to procure one but ended in Eames perfecting his forgery skills and just acquiring the funds instead. What it meant, though, was that once they'd given Yusuf the formula and the money, they could dream as much as they wanted.

And, oh, how they dreamed. They broke rules they hadn't realised existed. They created and destroyed and rebuilt and invented impossible things.

* * *

If Eames had been any other man, or if he'd spent the night any other night, or if her father had picked any other day to burst in with the PASIV, Mal would never have invited him under with her. Even then, it could have been an unmitigated disaster. Eames could have said no and blabbed, he could have not taken to shared dreaming like a fish to fucking water, or he could have been so personally abhorrent that she tucked the case and ran as far and as fast as she could.

But sharing dreams with Eames was revolutionary. They explored the possibilities of more than one dreamer, of collaboratively constructed spaces, of shared subconscious, and giggled at the _things_ they could _do!_ Eames wove dreamspace in ways Mal had never considered and challenged Mal to try more, do more, dig deeper.

Mal recreated Notre Dame. It had taken all damn day, and for the life of her she couldn't remember exactly how many flying buttresses were in the back, but when she stood back to look at it, she felt giddy. She had made that. When she turned to find Eames and show him, she found herself looking into her own eyes.

"Huh," she murmured, examining the woman in front of her. "I've never seen a projection of myself before. I didn't know I had one. Is this how I see myself?" she asked, not expecting a response. "Why are my tits so big?"

"Isn't this how they usually are?" Eames's voice asked from the Mal in front of her.

Mal jumped about a mile. She watched her face dissolve into Eames's chuckling one with her mouth hanging open.

"How?" she breathed, coming forward to feel the forehead and nose and lips she was so used to. Eames shrugged.

"Concentrate."

"Do it again," she asked, "please," and Eames complied.

She never did get anywhere near Eames's ability to flit back and forth between faces and she was endlessly jealous. She didn't have the attention to personal detail to make it believable and she flailed at it uselessly until she gave up.

She was the one, though, that figured out where Eames kept his secrets. She'd found three, locked in a hotel safe at The Ritz she'd built, and she could only guess at the meaning of one. She wasn't going to tell him that she'd found the poker chip and knew about his gambling problem because she felt like it wasn't any of her business. They were together, but they weren't _together_ together. She had her own boundaries, and God help Eames if he started snooping.

It was that thought which made Mal confess. If she'd found his stash of secrets by accident, he'd better learn to hide them better, and she wasn't about to let him stumble on hers. She told him about the dead bird, the set of baby shoes with the price tag still attached, and the poker chip one night when he was mapping her skin, quiet and soft the way he always was after sex. Except, after she told him, he wasn't any of those things. She'd never imagined him so angry, his eyes blazing with rage to hide the hurt and fear.

He'd left her that night, and she wondered if he was gone forever. She wouldn't apologise, but she understood. She knew she'd done the right thing, because she, too, carried a few things close to the vest. If Eames had found them and not mentioned it, or worse, used the knowledge against her, she would have done worse than storm off.

He came back, though, because dreamsharing was like nothing else, period. There was no substitute, and Mal considered the fact that she might be properly addicted. When Eames showed up on her doorstep looking like he hadn't slept well since he'd stormed out, she opened the door wide, wrapped him in a hug, and whispered her fear against his neck. He didn't speak, but nodded, and took her to bed.

The next morning when she woke, Eames was already under. She considered joining him, but chewed her lip and made tea instead. She paced, winding and unwinding a string around her finger, and sipped tea until he woke, and when he looked at her, she knew he understood.

"I have a plan," he'd said, and his sure tone and steady presence were all that was needed to make that sentence the most reassuring one she'd ever heard.

* * *

He knew Mal had done the same thing he'd have done. She took the only path she saw available and he couldn't fault her for that. He went back, hat in hand, and when Mal opened the door, she looked thin and worn, a shadow of the woman he'd met in the bar that day. He'd had a part in that and it wasn't something he was proud of. But he had an idea, a goal, something productive they could do with the dreamshare time and experience points they were racking up. And Mal with a goal was a sight to behold.

Her discovery, accidental or not, was the fortuitous happenstance he needed to cement his plan in mind. He would pull a mark into his dream, let them populate it with their subconscious, and then pop the hatch on their secrets and mine them for all they were worth. And if it worked, those secrets could be worth a lot to the right people.

It seemed simple on paper, but the first job they pulled rewrote everything they thought they knew. It was a simple test run really and more of an experiment than anything. It required Eames to seduce Brandon again, and once he was asleep, find out everything he knew about Project Somnacin. Any intel he had on the other PASIV wouldn't go amiss either.

They learned so much on that first job, it was embarrassing to think about later. For example, they didn't anticipate that getting the mark proper pissed would translate to every single one of the projections being pissed too. They also didn't anticipate the safe they'd created being empty except for a faded pink stuffed rabbit. They finally found an office with a desk drawer that contained a file labelled "PS is BS" and took it with them when the drunk projections started hammering down the door. With literal hammers. They escaped out the window and Eames watched a group of projections make their way towards them while Mal knelt on the concrete and examined the file.

A sharp gasp made him turn, and in her hands, Mal held a photo of a sandy-haired bloke Eames vaguely recognized from base. He shot her a concerned look, but Mal only pursed her lips, folded the photo into her bra and continued flipping through the file. He had no idea what she was doing with the photo, it wasn't like she could take it with her.

"Mal, what the hell is taking so long?" Eames asked, the nervousness in his voice starting to creep through. The group of projections was glaring at them and becoming increasingly handsy, and Eames was using his body to shield Mal from the worst of it. There was a drunk guy that was starting to piss him off and wouldn't back the fuck up. When Eames couldn't take it anymore, he hauled off and punched the guy in the jaw, and it was like a siren had gone off. Every projection in the area swivelled and stared at Eames. When they advanced, Eames had never wanted a big sodding gun more in his life. "Mal?!" he said, backing up. They kept coming and when they started hitting and kicking him, he turned to run. He ran and ran and they came from everywhere, mobbing him and dragging him down. It was an unpleasant way to die, to say the least.

He woke up screaming to a room where Mal and Brandon were still asleep, and someone knocking on the room door asking if everything was okay.

"Yeah! Yeah, all good here, mate, thanks for checking," he said through the door. "Just a nightmare, no worries."

Then he ran to the bathroom and threw up.

Mal was out for the entire time on the clock, despite Eames calling her name and shaking her. He sat on the chair and chewed his cuticles and wished to almighty God for a cigarette. When she finally woke up, he wanted to shake her again but tucked it aside while they cleared out the PASIV and fixed the sheets.

"What did you find?" he asked when they were safely in the car, putting miles between themselves and the hotel.

Mal's face darkened. "He knew a lot but doesn't know anything about the other PASIV. No one does. They were using the PASIVs for military training exercises. Like an advanced Virtual Reality." Her voice was hard and bitter, and Eames couldn't blame her. He also wasn't entirely surprised, because that's exactly what the military did.

"Anyway, it got defunded when one guy blew his brains out, although it didn't say why he did it."

"Hmm," Eames said, and he couldn't quite bring himself to care about most of what she was saying because, "Did you know that if you get killed in the dream you wake up?"

Mal blinked at him. "No," she said.

"Mmm, you really do. Guess how I found out?"

"Shit," she breathed. "God, I'm sorry Eames."

"I'd like to start on a possible client base when we get back," Eames said, changing the subject so he didn't have to think about it anymore. "We're going to need to prove this is possible, but now we know it is, right?"

Mal nodded, slowly. " _Oui_ , I think it is. I really think it is."

Her grin was every inch the woman in the bar, and Eames couldn't help but grin back.

* * *

Mal never asked about the objects in the safe, and Eames was grateful. He never offered her an explanation, but he also never asked her about the photo of the sandy-haired bloke or how she knew him, and he never went looking for her secrets. They allowed each other their space, they enjoyed each other's company, and they never had to look for sex, it was there when they needed it. He set the rule about only using the PASIV for jobs or for prepping for jobs, and they adhered to it. They kept each other sane. They forced discussions about books, went to movies, got out of the house at least once a day. Eames worked out constantly, Mal took an interest in jazz music, they both read obsessively, and it was… okay. Dreaming was still everything he'd hoped for, and he didn't need more than that. It was fine.

The second job was much, much better. It was pro bono because they still needed to make sure they could deliver, but when they dug into their mark's safe, they knew they should have charged money. He was the head of the city council, being investigated for misappropriation of funds. Mal's father had heard about it through one of his city planning consultant jobs. They approached the department head, offered him a chance to find out for sure with the caveat that it wouldn't be admissible in court, and he agreed with the request to find a way to prove it if possible.

They found more than that. By the time they were done, they could have had half the people in the local city government arrested and ended no fewer than four marriages.

"We can't prove the embezzlement," Mal informed the department head. "Although it may interest you to know that it's true. However," she continued, holding up her hand to stop his protest, "I recommend you take an officer with you when you confront him."

Eames slid a file across the table at him, and the man sucked in a breath as he flipped through it.

"If you open the false bottom in the left-hand drawer of his desk, I believe the contents will get him out of your hair anyway," Eames advised with a tight smile.

They found they had a specific type of information they could get, and they found that smash and grab only worked in a small portion of the jobs they pulled. Most jobs required finesse, charm, and not a small amount of theatrics, which both Mal and Eames had in spades. They experimented, learned to _talk_ to the mark in the dream world, and started to put them in situations where they'd share the information freely. And they got _good_ at it.

Eames met Mal's eye across the hotel lobby as she walked with the mark to the counter, holding the woman's hand. They had six more minutes topside, which gave her plenty of time to work her magic, as long as she didn't flinch.

"Come on, Mal," Eames muttered. "It's sex and a conversation. You could have both while painting your nails." He scouted the projections, watching for any sign of alarm, but so far so good.

Mal pressed herself against the mark, whispering something in her ear and getting her to giggle and blush. Mal smiled back and dragged the keycard across the counter with one finger, watching it slide while she bit her lip. The mark swallowed and handed over cash to pay for the room.

Eames frowned. They'd assumed the mark would use a card so Mal could see if the name or number matched the one she'd memorised. Fuck. Well, they'd also assumed the woman was straight, so it wasn't the first time they'd had to improvise in this dream. He heaved himself from his seat, shifting easily into the form of his brother. It was a familiar form, easy to replicate and mannerisms not dissimilar to his own. He flexed his fingers, staring at the newspaper in his hands, and walked right into the mark as she turned from the counter, all of her senses wrapped up in Mal.

"Oh, my apologies, love!" he stuttered, retrieving her bag from the floor. As he handed it back, his gaze lingered on Mal and the mark's joined hands. He gave them a lascivious grin, tipped an imaginary hat, and walked away, whistling as he left. As soon as he was around the corner and away from prying eyes, he flipped open the wallet he'd lifted from her purse. Sure enough, every card in the wallet was in the business's name instead of her own. Eames grinned. He checked his watch, giving Mal 40 more minutes of dream time, then he was going to pull the fire alarm. He would put big money on it that the hotel safe would house the documents they were looking for to prove she was stealing money left, right and center from under her boss's nose. She'd probably been doing it for years.

Except that when he went in, hair dripping from the sprinkler system and ears ringing from the alarms, the safe also contained a second stack of files, taller than the first, with copies of medical bills and procedures going back years and, finally, a death certificate for her late husband. If the bank statement was anywhere near accurate, she was still paying off bills.

He checked his watch again. There was one more slim file, shoved up against the side and the contents of that file, while obviously less important to the mark, made Eames's eyebrows rise. He read the file, then read it again, shoulders hunched against the damp and pushing his hair out of his face to keep droplets from smearing the words.

Eames closed his eyes, memorising, recalling the data, then double checking from the documents before he turned. He was fairly sure the gun on the counter hadn't been there before, but he hummed, pressed it to his temple and squeezed the trigger. In the nanosecond between action and consequence, he though, _Oh, shite, what if-_

But then he was waking up in the massage parlour where they'd set up shop, the masseuse pausing her game of solitaire on her phone to half-rise from her chair. Eames waved her down as he stumbled to the laptop he'd set up in the corner. He recorded every detail he could recall into a file and saved it with trembling fingers. Then he re-read it, added a few more lines, and moved to Mal's side to check her breathing and pulse. Then the mark's. Twenty more seconds on the PASIV and Eames was thanking the girl for her time, assuring her she'd never hear from them again, and packing up what he could. When Mal blinked awake, he asked her with his eyes if everything was okay. She avoided his gaze, unplugged the lines, and walked out without looking back. Eames scrambled to grab their gear and follow her.

A week later, their client met them in a coffee shop, grinning from ear to ear.

"So, you got it, then?" he said, sipping his frappucino and smoothing his tie.

Eames fought down his disgust at the monied arse and tried to focus on the 'money' part. "Indeed."

Mal handed Eames the file; from previous encounters, it seemed the client tended to take information better coming from a man.

Eames slid the manila folder across the table. "Here are the dates, times, and transactions you'll need to pull. The resulting information should be enough information to convict her for embezzlement."

"Well! That was very good work, my-"

"This," interrupted Eames, sliding a second file across the table to him, "is a copy of her personal online bank records, every two months, for the past three years. If you'll just take a look at the bottom right-hand corner, you'll notice a rather low figure there." He held his hand out for the next file from Mal.

"Here are the current balances owed at the hospital, nursing home, and funeral home, along with a copy of the death certificate issued two months ago."

"Listen, I'm very pleased with the proof you've recovered," the client said, a flush crawling up his neck. "But I am already aware of Mrs.-"

"And here," Eames said, sliding the final file across the table at him, "are the dates, times, and transactions that coincidentally coincide with your own online bank records."

The stunned silence from across the table spoke volumes.

Eames cocked his head. "Now, she didn't have any other specifics on hand, not that we could find anyway. But I thought, since you're paying for it, that you'd want _all_ the details. That way, you could handle it… appropriately."

The client swallowed, nodded, and stacked the files. "Thank you for your time," he said, subdued. "The payment will be transferred within the hour."

Eames gave him a tight smile and they watched him walk out the door. Outside, in the bright sunlight, the client looked at the files in his hand, then dumped them in the nearest bin.

"He's not going to pay us," Eames murmured, sipping his tea.

"Mmm," Mal hummed. "It's a good thing we already took care of that when we were in there."

"Mmm," Eames hummed back. "It's a good thing you got their passwords with your sexy pillow talk. Did we give ourselves a bonus for such good work?"

"We might have," Mal agreed.

"We are so wise."

* * *

Morally ambiguous didn't mean morally bereft. Mal had assumed Eames would take the money and run, and she'd so carefully constructed a speech to explain what she found out from the mark while they were cuddling. She couldn't steal from this woman, she just couldn't.

Mal had been more than nervous about being with a woman, which felt silly but still true. But thankfully, the mark had been more interested in touching and talking, and Mal was _so_ embarrassingly, obviously grateful that they'd both laughed. But this woman was lovely and possibly on the asexual spectrum anyway, and there was something to be said for low-pressure first-time encounters. They'd talked and talked and kissed and talked and petted and _talked_ , and then the fire alarm had gone off. They'd run out of their hotel room in bathrobes, laughing through the sprinklers showering them with surprisingly warm water, and kissed in the hallway, sweet, tender kisses that spoke of comfort and attachments and connections Mal hadn't let herself want for a long time. When the timer ran down, Mal woke with the memory of those kisses on her lips. Usually jobs got her hot and bothered, but this one was different. Those kisses haunted her. She hadn't let Eames touch her for days.

But then he'd grinned and agreed with her, before she'd even gotten through explaining why she just couldn't sell out this mark. He told her what he'd found in the safe, and together they worked on figuring out usernames to go with the passwords the mark had unknowingly given them. She watched him, hunched uncomfortably in front of a computer and glaring while he pecked at the keys, and remembered that she really, genuinely liked this man. A surge of fondness welled up in her and she dropped a kiss on his cheek and asked him if he wanted anything from the shops.

* * *

"With the job you're asking for, Mr. Miller, the prep work, the reconnaissance, it'll be $700,000," Eames advised, watching him closely.

Mr. Miller raised his eyebrows and blinked, "Very well, if that's what you-"

"-down," he continued.

Mr. Miller's Adam's apple bobbed and even over the bar scents Eames could smell his deodorant vaporise. Eames flashed him a tight smile. "The other half will be due upon delivery."

"Oh, come now. That seems a bit excessive," Mr. Miller stated, leaning back in the booth, his eyes flitting over Eames. He could afford it, Eames well knew, which was why it pissed him off so fast that he apparently needed to _sell_ what they were doing.

This job was high profile. It was corporate espionage and big money and could seal their portfolio if they landed it. Eames wanted it, but not like Mal wanted it. Eames could see the gleam in her eyes every time she had opened a file with the mark's name on it. She was at the top of her game and she could name her price. Except, apparently, she couldn't.

"I am not going to just pay that price because you say that's how much it costs," said the snivelly balding dweeb in front of him.

"Actually," Eames said smoothly, twirling the tumbler in front of him, "you do. That's how this works. We tell you how much the illegal thing you're asking for costs, and then you pay it." His voice hardened dangerously. "We don't give you a bloody itemised receipt."

"Why not?" Mr. Miller shot back. "That's what the other guys do."

He could feel Mal freeze beside him, but Mr. Miller was busy glaring at him and didn't notice, so Eames smirked in his face. "But we are better, that's why. Which is why you're going to pay our fee and somehow muddle through your life without a receipt, because We. Are. Better."

"I can promise you," Mal stepped in, her voice low and smokey, "it will be worth it." She leaned forward across the table, drawing an elegant, red-nailed finger down the side of Mr. Miller's pint glass, starting at the rim and pulling it all the way to the coaster. The condensation pooled under her finger tip. When she lifted it, a fat drop of cool dew hung from the pad of her index finger and she touched it to her bottom lip, watching him all the while. When her tongue flitted out to touch the moisture, she wasn't even _looking_ at him and Eames felt his cock start to harden. Poor Miller didn't stand a chance.

"Yeah," he breathed out, shakily. "Yeah, alright." He cleared his throat. "When can you start?"

Mal gave him a sultry smile and drugged the tip of her finger over her lower lip like she just couldn't get enough of the taste.

"We'll be in touch," Eames announced, sliding out of the booth and dragging Mal with him. He pulled her along as she watched the client, holding his gaze as Eames led her away. God, they were a great team.

Eames fucked her in the loo, bent over the counter, with her navy blue dress rucked up her back and two of his fingers in her mouth to keep her from screaming. She was hot and wet before he got her panties off, and she pulsed around him as he whispered in her ear.

"Christ, babe, you are good at that. Gonna be a fuckin'... cake walk… easy money, babe." He thrust into her hard and she sucked on his fingers, moaning. "God, you are gagging for it, aren't you? You like that?" He rumbled nonsense at her, his voice low and urgent as they pushed each other closer, their skin slaps thunderous in the small space.

He pulled his spit slicked fingers from her mouth and used them to find her clit, stroking in furious counterpoint to their thrusts. She wailed, her hips stuttering, and he gripped her, hard, with his other hand, taking her over the edge as he pumped into her and losing himself along the way.

When she recovered enough, she reached for a wad of towels to clean off the spunk that was running down her creamy thigh. Eames stopped her by pressing the pink cotton of her panties into her hand instead. She raised an eyebrow, her cheeks flushed and sweaty tendrils clinging to her neck, and he just smiled at her. She smiled back, accepting the challenge, and stepped into the fabric as he tucked himself away. Then she pulled down her dress, hiding the pink and the mess from sight, and his dick gave an undaunted twitch at the knowledge that they were both still there, and both were his as soon as they got back.

It wasn't just the money that was an added thrill for Eames, although he'd grown up poor; the military was the only option for him to get out of the two-bedroom flat he'd shared with his mum, his brother, and his sister. And it wasn't that these jobs pushed all of Mal's buttons, although she'd rut against him in the night, and if he didn't hurry, she'd be done before he got his pants off. And, although it took longer for him to admit it, it wasn't even the chances to dream that came with the jobs. He and Mal still stuck to the agreement that they didn't use the PASIV recreationally any more, because he could understand the lure of a world of his choosing.

No, what drew Eames to this lifestyle, this obsession, was the ability to have the unobtainable. He could squirrel away money or blow it in one fell swoop. He could walk with an opulent Mal on one arm and flirt with the chav busboy at the same time. And he could ferret out secrets and dishonesty privy to no one else. It was laid at his feet and it was glorious.

* * *

When the bullet ricocheted off the concrete next to Eames's head, the shattered pieces sliced his eyebrow, millimeters from his eye. Blood obscured his vision at once. Mal was shouting his name, but he was too busy pulling her behind cover, scouting sight lines and shaking blood out of his face to answer her. They crouched behind the bar, and the bartender reached for a shotgun that Eames held his hand out for. The bartender passed it over without comment and Eames hefted it to his shoulder, training taking over. He waited, but only the one shot had been fired. He tracked trajectory and noticed the hole in the window the bullet had passed through first. Sniper across the street then. He stretched his neck to see over the bar to get a better idea where the shooter was sitting, and the wood of the bartop exploded a foot to the left.

"Fuck," he gusted, ducking down again.

Mal was wide-eyed but ready. The bartender was grim but going to stay out of the way. Eames nodded to himself and tightened his grip on the shotgun.

"I'm going to give us cover fire so we can duck out the back. Head down the alley and into the next building," he said to Mal. She nodded, slipping her heels off and gripping them tightly in her fists. "Sorry about the bar, mate," he directed to the barkeep.

"Not my bar," he grunted, crossing his arms and settling in. He wasn't going anywhere. "But I did press the panic button. Cops should be here in about seven minutes."

Eames grunted in acknowledgement, his mouth a tight line. He would have done the same.

"Who is it?" Mal said, hand on his arm.

Eames shook his head. "Whoever he is, he's a bloody good shot."

He hauled the shotgun on top of the counter, keeping his head well out of sight. When he squeezed the trigger, the front window exploded outward in a shower of glass, which meant he was at least pointed in the right direction.

"Go!" he screamed at Mal, but she was already crouched down and running. The return fire went wide, and Mal might have yelped, but she didn't slow down. Eames fired again, aiming slightly more this time, but mostly moving. Get out. Stay down. Go, go, go, go. Slam the door shut behind him, and ignore the way a slug buried itself in the door frame on his way out. Then they were gone, smoke in the wind, leaving sirens and shattered glass behind them.

* * *

"Jesus," Mal whispered, pressing a cloth to his brow once they got to their room. It was pouring blood down his face, but he just shook her off and she watched as he got in the shower. Eames had gotten done with his last tour two months ago and had no intention of re-enlisting, so she wasn't surprised when he suggested they pulled up stakes that night. There was nothing keeping them in London, and Eames with his bandaged eyebrow and Mal clutching her PASIV close to her chest, they were quite the pair. Her mind was going a million miles an hour, but she would have forgotten a toothbrush if Eames hadn't been there to remind her. He barked orders at her, and normally she would have been annoyed but now she was just glad that someone knew what to do and was telling her.

They took the train. "Two for Edinburgh, isn't that right, dear?" Eames murmured in Mal's ear as he grinned at the elderly woman behind the ticket counter, who couldn't care less about the show Eames was putting on for her benefit, and Mal tried not to tap her foot. The ride was long and boring but she didn't notice. The second they were in motion, Mal got on her phone and Eames got on his, and they called every contact they knew.

"Hello, my dearest!" she chirped into her mobile. "I agree, it's been just ages. Oh, you'd heard that? Well, what a silly rumour! Where did you hear it? Oh, of course not, I'm sure he was just concerned. Right. Well, I was just calling to hear your dulcet voice, my dear. How have you been?"

Eames raised an eyebrow at that but she made a face at him and half listened, making notes on a piece of paper between them. When the conversation was over, she dialled again. "Hello, my dearest!" she chirped to the next person.

In the end, word of mouth proved faster than modern technology. Or, at least faster than modern technology in their hands. Between Eames and herself, they figured out who they were dealing with-a second PASIV team consisting of someone named Arthur and an extractor, who'd been hired by Mr. Miller's brother. They also found out that no matter what Mr. Miller said, they'd been severely under-charging.

"How did they find us?" Mal complained to the ceiling as she lay flopped across the hotel bed. "Seriously. How did they know we were going to be at that crappy restaurant?"

Eames just sat in the desk chair, swivelling it back and forth, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he thought.

"Military," he muttered.

Mal sat up, looking at him. "What?"

He blinked as if noticing her for the first time. "They're military," he said. "They have a PASIV and they have a sniper team. A damn good one too." He touched the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow, wincing. That was going to scar.

Mal thought furiously. "I don't even know if they're a threat or just competition. But I have to think threat, because if their method for dealing with competition is to get a _sniper team_ ," she sneered, "I don't know that I'm in the right game. How will we get rid of them?"

Eames didn't say anything for a moment and Mal flopped back on the bed.

"Let's hire them."

She sat up again. "What?"

Eames looked at her, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his beautiful lips. "Let's hire them. Let's give them a part of our next cut and see what they can do for us." He interrupted her protest, saying, "If they were able to find out we were going to be at that shite pub, then they obviously have access to something we don't. And," he added, shrugging, "I'm curious."

He couldn't be serious. "You're curious."

He grinned at her, full out, crooked teeth on display. "It's what got me into this in the first place, you know."

He was serious. She leant her head back and cursed a blue streak in French.

"I wonder what they do differently," he mused. "You know babe, I'm kind of surprised we haven't heard more about the other device before now," he said as he ambled back in his chair. "I'd thought we'd come up with something a bit unique here, but I suppose it validates the business."

Mal might be getting an ulcer. That knot in her stomach could definitely be an ulcer. "Well, please!" she scoffed, "Call them up and find out! There's no way that could go badly, hiring the people who tried to have us killed."

"Babe, I could swear that's sarcasm I hear, but it couldn't possibly be because you're too French." He kept talking over her glaring. "It's not personal, it's business. It's not a terrible idea, calling them up. If we worked together, we could drive prices up rather than down."

Mal threw her hands in the air and walked out of their hotel room. She was going to buy a new dress and it was going to make her feel better and _fuck_ Eames and his annoying amounts of stupid.

She was handing over her credit card when her mobile rang.

"Daddy," she purred into the phone, and she could hear the relief in his tone.

"Mal, you're alive," he sighed.

"Of course I am. What made you think otherwise?"

"Hmm? Oh, just a contact of mine. I'm just glad to hear your voice, pumpkin."

Mal made a face at the nickname, but her curiosity was piqued.

"Contact?" she asked, hoping she sounded offhand but interested enough to enlighten.

"Mmm," he said noncommittally and Mal's palms started to sweat. He knew something. He only gave her that hum when he was trying to get out of saying something he didn't feel like he should be discussing with a "child."

"Who do we both know?" she pressed. "And why would they think I wasn't alive?"

"Well, I…" her father started, "He's not someone you know directly, actually." But she could practically hear his resolve crumple, the way it always did for her.

"What do you mean? How do you know him, Daddy?" Okay, it was a bit mean. She knew she only used the word manipulatively, but it just worked so fucking _well_.

"Well, you remember that silver case I gave to you for safekeeping a while back? He's got the other one. That's how I know him. Anyway, he was on a job in London and heard you'd been… well. It doesn't matter now, does it? You're safe and sound and right where you should be."

"Well, I don't know about that," she said.

"What do you mean?"

She let herself smile at the sales girl who was returning her card and handing over the oversized bag. "I'm buying a new dress."

Her father laughed, his warm chuckle one her favourite things about him actually. She could hear him relax and she went in for the kill.

"So he has a job, is in London, knows you, and has a concern for my wellbeing? Where do I meet this guy?"

"Oh, are you and Eames…?"

She ignored the hopefulness in his voice. "Eames could do with some healthy competition. In fact, he told me this morning he thrives on it. What's his name?"

"Well, I don't know if that's such a good idea…"

"Daddy. I'm a big girl. You can't protect me from knowing boys' names forever," she teased.

He chuckled again, but this time subdued. She held her breath.

"Arthur," he said. "His name is Arthur."

Her pulse quickened. "Arthur…?" she prompted. _Please say Cobb, please say Cobb…_

"I never knew his last name actually," her father said. "He's always been just Arthur. So that should tell you something."

"Want me to find out for you?" She kept her tone half teasing, half serious even though her heart sank, just a bit.

She could hear the chair he was sitting in creak as he shifted uncomfortably. She was standing in the vestibule of the shop, one finger pressed to her ear and her other hand wrapped sweatily around the handles of a bag she had almost zero interest in compared to what her father was going to say next.

"You know, I don't really think he's your type…"

"Daddyyyyyyy," she groaned, her frustration pulling the whine from her lips a bit too heartily. She slipped into a stream of French, making sure to speak quickly and run her words together as she complained about being treated like an adult, capable of making her own decisions.

"Alright, alright!" She could picture him throwing his hands up in the air as he said it and she did a silent shimmy in celebration. "I'll get you his number. Would that make you happy?"

" _Oui, Papa."_

* * *

Eames wanted to go for a run. Or punch something. Or both. He paced their hotel room, picturing lining up an endless row of Mr. Millers so he could jog by and punch him in the face as he passed. He was just trying to imagine speed and distance apart for maximum punching effectiveness when Mal walked back in the room.

He took in the frankly outrageously pricy bag clutched in her hand, the sharp creases and stretched plastic from where she'd been holding it so tight. Her hair was wind blown, her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing hard. But it was her eyes that captured him. Bright and dancing and _alive_ , the way only she ever managed to be.

She threw the bag carelessly on the bed and he raised an eyebrow. "Good trip to the shops?"

She beamed at him. "The best."

They ended up calling Arthur the next week. They debated back and forth about who should do the talking and what they should say and in the end, Eames placed the call from his mobile.

"Hello, love," Eames smiled into the phone. "Is this Arthur?"

After a pause, an American accent asked, "How did you get this number?"

"Yellow Pages," Eames breezed back. "I'm looking to hire you. Any interest?"

Another pause, shorter this time, then, "Don't call this number again." The click in his ear, combined with the dark baritone in the other end made him grin, and he responded without thought the way he would have to any bloke playing hard to get.

- _Is there a diff # i shld call, luv? ;)_

His fingers flew over the keypad and he hit send. He showed the screen to Mal when he caught her cold glare. He shrugged. "Ball's in his court now. We'll just have to wait and see."

The answer buzzed a few seconds later. Eames chuckled out loud when he read it, certain they were in.

_-*different_

_*number_

_*should_

_*love_

_Don't text me unless you can spell._

"What does that mean?" Mal asked, her voice tight with concern.

Eames only grinned harder. "It means I'll handle this one."

- _My apologies, Arthur, I didn't realise there were protocols regarding this sort of thing._

The answer came back almost immediately.

_-*realize_

Eames debated, then shrugged. What the hell. He'd always been a sucker for a gamble.

_-*realise. Sry darling, ur gonna have 2 gv me that 1. It was our language 1st._

After a bit of a wait, his phone buzzed.

_-Look on my works ye mighty and despair. Lose this number._

Eames typed as fast as his fingers allowed.

_-Absolutely, Ozymandias. And at which number should I contact you instead?_

The delay that followed was agonising. Eames chewed his thumb, jiggled his knee, and eventually paced. He refused to type a single letter, but his phone didn't leave his hand. Three-quarters of an hour later, when his phone buzzed in his hand, he thought he'd imagined it.

_-(555) 904-4791_

Eames didn't celebrate his win until he'd texted the new number and received a reply.

_-so r u interested?_

Luckily, the reply came right away.

_-I'd need some specificity before I can answer that, wouldn't I._

It was a pissy, condescending answer, but Eames had to keep himself from punching the air.

_-*?  
Dont text unless u can use proper punctuation, luv ;)_

He was getting that fluttery stomach feeling again, the one he got from dreamsharing and nowhere else.

This time he showed Mal the screen before he hit send, and she nodded.

_-Could've used ur help on the Miller job, tbh. But the next 1 will do fine instead._

There was no reply, but Eames knew there wouldn't be one. He'd shown his hand and now he just had to play the cards.

His turn came up about a month later. He and Mal had been cooling their heels in Northern Ireland and they were both sick of it. There was a job-a good one-in Dubai. He'd never been, and Mal wouldn't admit it but she was scared to death of travelling that far.

"I'll protect you, babe," he leered at her and she rolled her eyes and left the room. He texted Arthur.

_-I hear Dubai in the summer is lovely, darling. Care to join me?_

The answer he got back wasn't yes and it wasn't no.

- _You're actually taking on that shitshow?_

He replied carefully.

_-Hopefully not alone_

The reply five minutes later was stilted and bossy but encouraging.

_-3 weeks is all you get. Dom calls the shots or no deal. You have yet to prove your usefulness, Mr. Eames. Don't disappoint us._

If Eames was supposed to be shocked by the fact that Arthur knew his name, he wasn't. After all, he knew Arthur's, and he got the impression that was much harder to acquire.

_-Absolutely, Ozymandias._

* * *

Eames dressed carefully that morning, with a gun in a concealed holster, and brass knuckles in his pocket, and trousers baggy enough to hide both of them. Mal was a vision, as always, in an off the shoulder shirt that showcased her fantastic collarbones. She had beautiful collarbones. He dropped a kiss on one as they left the hotel and she looked at him in bewilderment.

"For luck," he said, smiling.

"We don't need that," she smiled back. "We have me."

They'd gotten into the country last night, on freshly-created passports that didn't even raise an eyebrow, and Eames had patted himself on the back. Which was fortunate because no one else was doing it. He'd picked up a book with handy Arabic phrases and practised on the plane, but Mal relied on her haughty Frenchness to get by. It worked, though, damn her.

He held the door for her to the empty warehouse that sat at the address Arthur had texted him, which was why she saw the infamous duo first. She gasped, softly, but when Eames laid eyes on the vision in the ridiculously tailored suit, he couldn't very well blame her. He was slim, dark-haired, and was bent over a familiar-looking silver case. He was young, god, impossibly young, and his hair was slicked back to make himself look older. His meticulous, light-coloured suit was cupping a very pert arse, and Eames wanted to lay him down and get him thoroughly, delightfully rumpled.

Eames realised he'd been staring and flinched. He looked at Mal, but she hadn't noticed his staring because her mouth was literally open and she hadn't even seen the brunette. Apparently there was another man in the room, and she only had eyes for him. She looked like she'd been struck by lightning. Eames felt a flare of concern and a tiny bit of jealousy, even though he'd just been ogling someone else, and he brought a hand to her elbow.

"You alright, Mal?" he murmured.

The other men hadn't acknowledged them yet and when she turned to him, he was grateful. The look on Mal's face was so gut-wrenchingly open and pained, it was like she was laying her diary at his feet and begging him to read it. She had longing etched into every inch of her skin, but her eyes… her eyes were asking him, _begging_ him, hopeful and scared.

It dawned on Eames— the reason why he'd lain next to her so many nights, laughed and joked with her so many days, and yet knew he wasn't in love with her. The reason was standing over there in a flop of blond hair staring at a folder. Or maybe the reason was standing over there in a tailored suit with thighs that he wanted to chew on and hair that he wanted to take apart. Either way, he knew, without asking or discussing, that they were done.

Eames gave her a fond smile and a slow nod. He dropped his head and brushed a kiss over her collarbone, and even though neither of them was leaving, it was goodbye.

When Mal turned back to face the room, she was the indomitable, untouchable woman he'd met all those years ago. She cleared her throat and a pair of heads turned to focus on her.

The older one walked toward her, hand out.

"Good morning, I'm Dominic."

"Cobb. Yes, I know," she said as she shook it. Mal's confident voice took all three men aback. Dominic and Arthur exchanged a glance, and Eames racked his brain to try and figure out if _he_ had known that. Dominic Cobb did look somewhat familiar… but what that really meant to both his large and small brain was that _this_ man, with the slightly sticky-out ears and the wiry forearms and the delightful cupid's bow mouth was the same baritone he'd spoken to on the phone and the same snarky person he'd texted back and forth with.

"And that must make you Ozymandias," Eames said, holding out his hand. "I'm Eames."

"Yes, I'd figured," Arthur said begrudgingly, taking his hand at last. Eames held it just a fraction too long and then dropped it when Arthur's eyebrows started to frown too.

"And this," he said placing a hand on the small of Mal's back, "is Miss Malorie Miles."

At that, both Cobb and Arthur's eyebrows went up.

"Miles…" Arthur said, "Forgive me, but I think I know your father."

"Yes," she said dismissively, "you told him I was dead."

Cobb, for his part, looked slightly amused. Arthur just got more scowly. Eames was impossibly charmed.

"So. Gentleman, show me what you know so far," Mal insisted, walking to the table at the other end of the room and the files they'd spread over it. A blueprint was furled at the end of the table and Mal opened it, rolling it out, and Cobb hurried over to hold down one end and explain. Their heads bent together so naturally, their low voices barely reaching Eames and Arthur as they watched.

Eames turned and saw Arthur looking at him.

"Did I do that?" Arthur asked, looking at the freshly healed gap of skin where part of his eyebrow used to be.

Eames ran a finger over the spot. "Mmm. Was that you? Bloody good shot."

Arthur just shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. "Could have been better."

"Oh, no, I think it was just right," Eames said, grinning at him. "Plus, now I'll get to be reminded of you every time I look in the mirror."

The sound of Dom's laughter from the other end of the room surprised both of them. He was staring at Mal, his eyes full of wonder, both surprised and impressed by whatever she'd said. Mal's lips quirked before she turned back to the table. Well, at least Mal's affections wouldn't go unreturned.

"I… uh, I thought you two were… together?" Arthur said, watching Cobb look at Mal as she gestured to the blueprints. He'd obviously seen it too.

"We used to be," Eames said, watching Arthur. When he looked over, Eames leered at him. "Jealous, darling?"

Arthur stiffened, then scowled, and Eames could not get over the adorable frown line between his eyes. He made a mental note to see it at least once every day — or until the end of the job. Because, for the first time, he was thrilled to take what he could get.


End file.
